


another (sixteen and counting)

by decidingdolan



Series: theopolis (use at your own discretion) [3]
Category: The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble, F/M, Gen, Musing, Reflection, feelings fest, scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 08:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1682024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decidingdolan/pseuds/decidingdolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started "With Compliments." Harry Osborn reflects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	another (sixteen and counting)

There's comfort in delirium.

There's comfort in forgetting. In living timed, self-accelerated roller coaster rides into numbness. In erasing what lay dormant in his mind, the way one might drape a wet cloth over a chalkboard. Temporary, perfunctory, painless. Residue of a mess yet somewhat visible.

He reached for the bottle and poured himself another glass. Darkened auburn liquid splashing against the transparent background.

The smokey, intoxicating aroma.

And he's never felt more at home.

They say home's not a place but a feeling, he's heard that somewhere. The last he'd had a home, feelings and heart and a literal place he belonged, foundation and windows and doors and rooms -one of his own-, was a little shy of nine years ago. The isolated, so called exclusive wing of the prep school reserved for him (in his name, imagine that. He played a game with himself sometimes, when calculus was boring him or his mind was in need of a short procrastination trip, the midnight round, guessing how much Norman (He hadn't let the word slip, not for years, not until he finally glimpsed him at his deathbed, scales and ominous pale green skin and long, monstrous nails and that raspy, stubbornly determined voice.) must have spent on building the school a new library, or whatever the fuck else they needed.

They (Peter included) all knew he wasn't exactly a star student.)

with its brick walls and lone, one person bed, a working desk and a lamp - was a cell. A prison, with boundaries and curfews.

He escaped, of course. Went anywhere, everywhere but home. Christmases, thanksgiving, Easters.

There were hotel rooms and discarded strips of call cards, plates of food left untouched. Sunlight streaming in too bright it nearly burnt holes in his eyes. Late nights swaggering out of Las Vegas casinos without the vaguest sense of reality, fumbling around a world created by the little consciousness he retained. High heels and obnoxious French accents. Teaching himself what pleasure meant.

Long legs, warm skin, plump lips. Grasps, dragged out, strangled cries, friction, contact, heightened nerves and sensations, intensity, satiating thirst, thrust by thrust, letting instincts take over, heat and sweat and tastes.-

Whirring of the engines. The consoles. The control pads. The leather seats. The stereo systems. The speed. Leaving the world behind. Hands on the wheel and living, feeling heart beating against his chest. Going, going, going, gone. Chasing the lights. Might as well tell death to the face he wanted to cheat him. It’s cheap, fleeting fun, but his hand's started to twitch, anyway.

And scotch. Well brewed. Dark auburn to caramel bronze. Sustenance that filled up his insides, his head and his mind. A potion that granted him access to illusions, to easing into his own lies, to a universe of his own that he'd rather exist in.

He's grown attached, they were saying. The chemicals had replaced his need for water.

And he had nobody else to blame.

With compliments, it said. With compliments—it’s a celebratory drink, a congratulatory drink, a drink saved to be savoured on particular occasions. With compliments, from Norman Osborn. 

With compliments, what was he to expect?

Dear Father, those words that he would never (even now) write.

He was sixteen. Sixteen, and old enough to thought himself to know better. Sixteen, and already grabbing his share of life, hard, fast, hoarding much as he could. Anything to rid him of the notion of home. Of his name.

Money was more of a medium, a guiltless way to pleasure, to buy, to gain, to own, to have. 

He was spent, body and soul.

He gazed at the liquid now. Still, golden brown, unchanging. There. Always there.

It’s a feeling. It’s comfort. 

It’s home.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for my other story, but then decided it'd work better as a stand-alone drabble.
> 
> Thank you once again so much, all of you, for stopping by, reading, leaving kudos! 
> 
> Loves <3 
> 
> x


End file.
